


some are born to endless night

by armyofbees



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Blood and Torture, Dark fic, Gen, JUST, Missing Scene, Poe Dameron Hurts So Prettily, Torture, Violence, and also has no sense of self restraint, mid- the force awakens, more of an ambiguous ending, or self preservation, throwing that out there, william blake insp., with kind of a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-22 19:31:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13173696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armyofbees/pseuds/armyofbees
Summary: From the moment Kylo Ren kneels down in front of him, Poe knows he's a dead man.





	some are born to endless night

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So I know Disney is a good, family-oriented company, but the First Order would most definitely not have left Poe with only minor injuries to his face. Trigger warning for graphic depictions of torture and Hux being a terrible person. Seriously, he's like a ginger rat Nazi.

_ a robin red breast in a cage _

_ puts all heaven in a rage _

_ a dove house fill’d with doves & pigeons _

_ shudders hell thr' all its regions _

_ a dog starv’d at his master’s gate _

_ predicts the ruin of the state _

_ a horse misus’d upon the road _

_ calls to heaven for human blood _

_ - _

_ every night & every morn _

_ some to misery are born _

_ every morn and every night _

_ some are born to sweet delight _

_ some are born to sweet delight _

_ some are born to endless night _

_ - _

_ god appears & god is light  _

_ to those poor souls who dwell in night  _

_ but does a human form display  _

_ to those who dwell in realms of day _

— 

William Blake, “Auguries of Innocence”

 

Turns out, the First Order doesn’t treat prisoners very nicely. From the moment goddamn  _ Kylo Ren _ knelt down in front of him, Poe knew he was a dead man. He just hadn’t expected being a dead man would be so painful.

He’s only half regretting his words, really:  _ “It’s very hard to understand you with all the apparatus,” _ has him smiling on the way to his holding cell. The Stormtroopers aren’t gentle with him, throwing him against the metal chair and stunning him when he tries to shrug out of their grip.

It’s when they’ve finally gotten the restraints on him and he says, “Always liked it rough, but you’re just downright kinky,” that he starts to understand what the First Order truly is. He’s expecting  _ something, _ some sort of reprimand, but he’s not expecting one of the Troopers to take the barrel of their blaster to his stomach.

The first time, he jolts, wheezing. His breath is knocked from him, and he feels like retching all over the pristine gray floor. If he could curl in on himself, he would, but he’s restrained and all he can do is wait, feel the bruise start to form on his abdomen.

And then the blaster comes down again. And again. And again. There are tears in his eyes by the time the Stormtroopers leave, and he’s wishing to some uncaring god that he could just get his breath back. That he could just hug himself. That he could find that Stormtrooper and beat them into the perfect, spotless gray ground. He’s almost afraid that he’s bleeding internally, that something’s been done to him, something he can’t fix.

And he’s still only half regretting his words. If being a smartass is what’s going to carry him through this, then so be it. The First Order will get nothing from him, except an extra body to throw out the airlock.

He knows he’s a dead man, but that thought still shocks him. It hadn’t really occurred to him before, but he’ll never leave this ship alive. He’ll never see Snap or Jess again, or the General, for that matter. It hits him like another blaster to the gut, but he feels it in his chest, in his throat.

He feels it, and he steels himself. So be it—the least he can do is not fail them on his last mission.

He’s only spared a half hour at most before the door to his cell opens. It’s that ginger officer who always looks like he’s got something up his nose. Hux, he’s pretty sure. Poe watches very closely as Hux pulls a long, thin rod from his overcoat. He fiddles with it for a moment, then glances up at Poe.

“Poe Dameron. A pleasure.” His voice is snotty and accented, and it makes Poe want to spit in his smug face.

“The pleasure is completely one-sided,” Poe says, because he doesn’t think Hux is close enough to be in spitting-distance. He gives a crooked smirk, partly because every time he speaks his bruised stomach protests heavily, and partly because he just really hates this guy.

Hux smiles tightly and raises the rod so that Poe can see it. “Good.” He presses something at the base of it, and it crackles to life with electrical energy. “I’m glad there’s still something left of you to break.”

Poe keeps up his smirk, but it feels nervous, and he hopes Hux can’t tell. The rod is very close to his face, and very, very warm.

Hux doesn’t go for his face.

Poe would be glad, except that he goes for his arms first, and Poe is so, so afraid of the thought of shaking hands and being anchored to the ground that he’s almost screaming before Hux touches him. But he’s not going to give Hux anything. The First Order will get  _ nothing _ from him. It’s becoming a mantra. It’s a good mantra to have.

Hux is still smiling faintly as he presses the rod into Poe’s arm. There’s searing pain, and Poe can feel his muscles seizing, all the way down to his wrist, his hand. He’s terrified, and  _ fuck, _ it hurts  _ so much, _ and he’s screaming. He knows it.  _ Give them nothing, _ he thinks, just as his arm seizes again.

And he’s afraid, he’s  _ petrified, _ but he can control one goddamn thing and that is what comes out of his mouth. So he turns his scream into,  _ “Shit!” _ and starts laughing. He’s pretty sure Jess would be ready to murder him if she could see this. He laughs even harder, because he can feel his arm going numb and jittery, and the only way he can ignore it is to focus on something else, something pointless.

Hux pulls back a few seconds later—seconds that feel like hours, like eternity—and smiles again. “Commander Dameron, correct?”

Poe is still catching his breath. He doesn’t respond to the question. When he can finally muster enough energy to speak, he says, “Guess it’s true what they say about gingers.” He looks into Hux’s face, waits for the raised eyebrow, and then says, “No soul.” Poe grins.

Hux is not amused. Poe’s arm seizes up the moment the rod touches it, like it’s still recovering from the shock of last time. Poe laughs again, manically, desperately.

The next time Hux pulls back, he says, “You know the whereabouts of something we want. You’ll tell me where the map to Luke Skywalker is.”

Poe hates that voice. He stares into Hux’s eyes, and realizes very suddenly that Hux is very close to him.  _ The First Order will get nothing from him. _ Poe doesn’t give himself time to think through the very obvious consequences before he spits in Hux’s face, and gets the very satisfying image of Hux, completely aghast, with saliva dripping from his nose.

And then Hux hits him. White-hot pain in his temple, a dull ache, a buzzing in his ears, and then darkness.

 

—

 

When he comes to, he’s alone. His arms aren’t numb, which seems like a good thing, but they  _ hurt. _ He twitches his fingers and it sends a shock all the way up to his shoulder. At least he can move them, but he figures that’s kind of a low bar.

Being alone gives him enough time to reflect on how utterly stupid doing that to Hux was, and also enough time to realize something.

He’s a dead man, and being a dead man  _ hurts. _ If he’s stupid enough, maybe being a dead man in a grave will hurt less than being one in a chair. That sounds a little like cowardice, but it also sounds like the best way to keep the map hidden.

Poe turns his head to look at his hand, and pain shoots through his skull, starting where Hux landed his blow.  _ This is a really bad idea, _ he thinks, but it’s all he has.

He tries pulling against the chair’s restraints, and his arm cramps like hell. He bites back a cry, waits until he can feel anything over the full body pain racing through his muscles. He catches his breath for a moment. And he pulls again.

This time, it hurts less. He can still work his fingers against the metal around his wrists, and he does, until the pain fades to a distant, constant throb. He stares at his hand for a moment, then sighs in frustration. He’s never gonna get out of there if he can’t get one goddamn hand out, but that’s not gonna happen unless he either breaks or dislocates his thumb.

He does not want to break or dislocate his thumb.

Poe Dameron: dead man walking. Best pilot in the Resistance. Would rather die than break his thumb.

It sounds ridiculous, even to him. He sighs again, and pulls harder. The metal bites into his hand, and he keeps pulling. It aches, and then stings, and when he looks down, there is a hint of red peeking out from underneath the metal. He wrenches his arm once, twice, and then hears a small pop. Pain explodes through his hand, but it comes out of the restraint.

Poe manages a small smile. It’s almost like he’s attempting a real escape attempt.

He reaches behind himself, just behind his head, where the controls for the rest of the chair are. He’s feeling around for a switch when the door to his cell opens. A Stormtrooper comes in, sees him with his hand behind his head, and they both freeze. Poe opens his mouth to say something witty, but the Trooper strides across the floor, grabs his hand roughly, and Poe just draws in a sharp breath.

The Stormtrooper opens the restraint, pins his hand back in place, and gives his hand one last sharp squeeze at the base of his thumb—there’s the sharp pop of his thumb relocating—before leaving.

They have a guard watch him at all times after that.

Hux comes in a couple hours after the incident, looking pensive. He dismisses the guard. He’s holding the rod again, and Poe feels his fingers twitch involuntarily. Hux’s eyes tick to Poe’s hand, and then back to his face. He smiles coldly.

“I see our last meeting was memorable.”

Poe tries to hold his tongue, he really does, but in the end he replies with, “I make a point of remembering and avoiding ugly dates.”

Hux is unperturbed. It was worth a shot. “You were caught making an escape attempt.” He sneers disdainfully, and Poe wants to take his head off his fucking shoulders. “I hope that you’re done with those,” Hux continues, heedless. “They’re quite pointless.”

“Sorry, pal,” Poe says. “Can’t promise anything.”

Hux considers this. “Did you know,” he says slowly, “that desertion from the First Order is punishable by death?”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Poe mutters.

“You see, I believe that escape attempts by prisoners are also punishable by death.” Hux’s eyes are something bright and not entirely sane. “But you have information I need.” His teeth glint when he smiles, cruel. “So it’ll be worse.”

And Poe believes him. He’s not about to tell him that, though, so he just laughs. “Good luck with that. I put a lot of weight on death.” He doesn’t, really, but it’s better if Hux thinks he does.

Hux just smirks and hits Poe with the rod. It lands on his shoulder, glances onto his chest, rips his shirt and leaves a trail of burned flesh and agony. Poe screams, “Fuck you!” and Hux lashes again, at the other shoulder, then his stomach, which is still bruised, and Poe cries out, squeezes his eyes shut. Hux hits his stomach again, and Poe doesn’t want to give him such a rewarding reaction. But he jerks forward, instinctively trying to wrap himself around his injury, and his arm cramps against the restraints, and his stomach hurts even more, and Poe’s screams are awful, even to his own ears.

Hux steps back, touches the very tip of the rod to Poe’s sternum. Poe’s shirt is in tatters, so the rod rests against his bare skin. “The map.” Hux’s voice is ice. “Where is it?”

Poe can feel himself breaking. He can feel his body crumpling, his bones giving way. But there is no way in  _ hell _ that the First Order is getting  _ anything out of him. _ “I left it with your mother,” Poe says, and he knows it’s juvenile and stupid and incredibly reckless, but he smiles as he says it and thinks Jess would be proud.

Hux brings the rod down on him again, and Poe tells himself that next time, he’ll have some self-restraint.

Hux leaves him panting and bloodied, fighting a whimper with all his might, with another blow to the temple. Poe doesn’t pass out this time, but he’s not very grateful for it.

“Get the man a new shirt,” Hux mutters to the guard waiting outside door, and turns down the hallway without another word.

Poe wonders why he needs a new shirt if Hux it just going to ruin it again. Maybe Hux is a sadist. He chuckles to himself at that, and the Stormtrooper next to him gives a sharp, “Shut up.”

He does, because he’s had enough pain for one day.

 

—

 

Hux doesn’t come back after that. Poe stays there in the chair, throwing quiet jibes at his guard for a while until the guard delivers a blow to his stomach and he shuts up for real. They wait in complete silence, Poe trying to memorize the patterns of metal on the ceiling in order to ignore the dull ache resounding through his entire body, and the Stormtrooper staring straight ahead.

When the door to his cell next opens, a new officer comes in. It’s not Hux, and Poe doesn’t know her name. She doesn’t introduce herself, but she dismisses the guard, and Poe feels his stomach clench in anticipation.

She’s brutal. She leaves scars all over, tiny little things, and Poe catches himself hoping they’ll fade quickly before he remembers that he’s dead. Even as he screams and laughs and throws insults around, he’s a dead man, and all he’s doing is prolonging whatever kind of hell this is.

Poe doesn’t tell her anything.

After her, it’s an endless blur of faces for hours upon hours, lost in a haze of pain and fear and a strong, unshaken resolve. Every time an officer tells him, “If you just tell me, this will all be over,” he thinks,  _ This is bigger than me. This is Leia and Jess and Snap. This is the Resistance. This is not my sacrifice to make. _

Every time they tell him that, he says, “Thanks, but if I had a death wish, I’d be dead by now.” That’s a lie. Near-suicidal rashness is his branding, but he’s still alive.

Somewhere in there, they give him fifteen minutes of rest. Somewhere, he falls asleep. He dreams in odd, fleeting feelings of warmth, of cold, of an intense and urgent sense of bravery, of an ice cold pit of fear. He dreams a feeling of hope, a feeling of joy, a feeling of home. He wakes up, and he remembers nothing.

When he opens his eyes, the first thing he registers is a dark blob. It gradually forms into the shape of Kylo Ren.

When Kylo Ren knelt in front of him, Poe Dameron knew he was a dead man. When Hux told him that his life would be worse than death, Poe believed him. When Poe tells Kylo Ren, “You might wanna rethink your technique,” he doesn’t know what he’s just brought upon himself. He doesn’t believe Ren would be able to take that literally.

When Kylo Ren reaches into his mind, sifts through his memories, through  _ him, _ Poe starts believing.

It’s like this: you are secure in yourself, your identity. You have lived your life as any person would, and your thoughts are your own. You’re daring, you’re sometimes stupid, but your decisions are yours to make. You are assured of that. And then, you are shattered. You break, and whoever took a mallet to your glass body is free to pick through the remnants for whatever they wish.

It’s like dying, but so much worse.

Poe goes limp when Ren leaves, tears pricking at his eyes, and the guard takes some sick kind of pity on him by hitting him over the head and sending everything spiralling into darkness.

 

—

 

“Ren wants the prisoner,” the Stormtrooper says, and Poe thinks,  _ Finally. _

He’s a dead man walking, but he’s about to just be a dead man. The guilt on his shoulders is so heavy, and the ache of his body is so much to bear. Not quite too much, but Poe is okay with giving it up.

When the restraints come off, his feet touch the ground, and he is grateful. They ache, and his knees hurt when he stands (someone dis- and relocated them, he doesn’t know who), but he feels grounded and slightly more real.

The Trooper’s grip is tight, but not in a malicious way. He seems, Poe thinks as they walk briskly down the halls, almost nervous.

And then the Stormtrooper says, “Turn here,” and shoves him into a narrow hallway. And Poe thinks,  _ What? _

“Listen carefully,” the Stormtrooper says—he definitely sounds nervous now—“if you do exactly as I say, I can get you out of here.”

“What?” Poe breathes, uncomprehending, barely daring to hope.

The Stormtrooper hesitates for barely a second before removing his helmet. Poe stares for a moment in awe, and barely has time to think,  _ This is not the face of a Stormtrooper, _ before the man is grabbing his arms.

“This is a rescue,” the man says, meeting Poe’s eyes, looking a little desperate. “I’m helping you escape. Can you fly a TIE fighter?”

“You’re with the Resistance?” Poe asks, because he can’t think of anyone else who would come get him.

“What?” the man asks, and Poe is lost. He has no idea what this guy’s motives are. “I’m breaking you out,  _ can you fly a TIE fighter?” _ Ah. There it is.

“I can fly anything,” Poe says, because he can, and also because he’s starting to believe this guy when he says he’ll help Poe get out. He’s also starting to think that it’s purely for selfish reasons, but it’s something.

The man smiles something wonderful and full of joy and  _ hope, _ and Poe gets an odd sense of  déjà vu, but he doesn’t know why. Poe realizes he’s smiling back.

“Why are you helping me?” Poe asks. He has a suspicion. He’s not exactly sure, though, and he doesn’t make a habit of trusting people who won’t tell him what they want.

The man’s face becomes something conflicted and serious. “Because it’s the right thing to do,” he says, solemn.

He’s lying, but Poe doesn’t mind. He knows already, anyway. “You need a pilot.”

The man looks away, nodding. “I need a pilot.”

And for the first time in what feels like forever, Poe grins. It’s not to drive home an insult or to fight some new wave of pain; he is just so genuinely happy and surprised that there is a chance, a  _ sliver _ of a chance, that he might make it out of this alive.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find me at my [tumblr](https://2000-bees-in-very-comfy-pajamas.tumblr.com/)! I take one-shot requests n things. I'm also currently still in shock after TLJ, and sort of pretending it never happened? In context: I watched TFA like three times today. Anyway, hope you enjoyed! Thanks again!!


End file.
